


you're no angel

by casdoms (moffwithhishead)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9.03 coda, Coda, Episode: s09e03 I'm No Angel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffwithhishead/pseuds/casdoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can’t stay here,” he tells you just when you start to relax. You don’t know what you’ve done but you find yourself hurt and mad so you leave. You take your things, what little you have, you begrudgingly accept the things he offers you, try not to be too hurt when he won’t look you in the eye, and leave with your head held high and your heart in pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're no angel

“You can’t stay here,” he tells you just when you start to relax. You don’t know what you’ve done but you find yourself hurt and mad so you leave. You take your things, what little you have, you begrudgingly accept the things he offers you, try not to be too hurt when he won’t look you in the eye, and leave with your head held high and your heart in pieces.

You walk to the nearest bus station and buy a ticket; sit on the bench for six hours while you wait for it to come. There’s music playing in the background and you hate it but you can’t do anything about it so you close your eyes, try to sleep. When you open your eyes again, someone has stolen the hoodie you left on the seat next to you. It’s cold. 

The bus is quiet, filled with people who don’t want to be there, and you sit at the back with your head resting on the window. This isn’t the first time you’ve ridden one of these buses and you wonder if it will be your last.

You have no books, no music to listen to - a phone, but there are no games or internet to distract yourself with. You find yourself thinking and you are surprised by how loud your thoughts are. You’d always thought it was just  _him_  that thought this loud but maybe it’s everyone. Maybe that’s why humans are so volatile, so fragile; they’re trying to hear everyone else over the clammer of their own thoughts. It reminds you of a form of torture you witnessed them using in hell.

An old woman takes the seat next to you after a few stops, starts talking to you despite the frown on your face. She smells like baked goods and warmth, her smile makes you forget that you don’t have your hoodie anymore. She tells you that she’s going to visit her grandkids, asks you where you’re going.

“I don’t know,” you tell her honestly. Her smile softens and she asks, as gently as she can, like she can tell you’re on the verge of breaking, “Home?”

Her question startles a laugh out of you, “No. I don’t have a home.” 

It’s the first time you’ve admitted that to yourself and she leaves you alone with your thoughts for the rest of the ride, only offering you a small squeeze on your shoulder before getting off. You wish she would’ve kept talking.

* * *

You find the first shelter you can when you get off the bus. It’s not far from the station and you have some money; you debate checking into a motel but ultimately decide food is more important. The thought depresses you more than it probably should. 

The woman who runs the place is kind and welcomes you with open arms. She shows you to your room and you smile a little, amused by the bitter irony that a stranger offers you more than your own family did. You quickly push that thought aside when it causes an ache in your chest and thank her for the room.

At dinner, you sit with her and two other women who work there. The three of them are lovely, they ask you what your name is - you blank for a moment, say Steve because you remember that it was the name of the old woman’s son. They seem to consider that for a moment before smiling at you and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Steve it is.

One woman, Margaret, asks you how you found yourself “in this situation.” You may be new to being human but being homeless isn’t new anymore. You know what she means.

You tell her you took some bad advice, borrowing April’s words, got stuck in a situation you weren’t equipped to handle. Got screwed over by someone you thought was your friend; lost everything. You tell them that you had been staying with a friend, indulging in your own little fantasy for a moment, but he kicked you out and you don’t know why. Your voice cracks when you try to say his name and you feel the other woman, Angie, squeeze your knee under the table. You don’t know why people keep doing that.

“Well honey,” Margaret tells you as she gives you an extra slice of pie and winks at you, you feel nauseous looking at it because it reminds you of  _him_ , “You deserve better than that asshole.” The other women laugh and you feel the urge to defend him but the anger that’s been bubbling inside you wins out. You laugh along with them and eat your pie like it personally wronged you.

* * *

That night you lay in your bed and you stare at the ceiling, try to make sense of the emotions that have been swirling around in your chest since you left the bunker. 

Anger. There’s definitely anger. And hurt - but that, that doesn’t feel like enough to describe how much of it you feel. Sadness; you’d thought that maybe this would finally be the chance for you to become a real part of their family, to stop hurting them. Stop hurting him.

You roll over and hug the extra pillow Janice slipped you that put his shirt on; hide your face in it and try to go to sleep.

It comes easier to you than it ever has.

* * *

At night many of the ‘guests’ as you all are called ‘hang out’ in the common room in front of the TV. You talk to one of the volunteers your second night about  _him_ , tell her as much as you can without sounding delusional.

She’s young and beautiful and she smiles as she squeezes your hand, “Steve, it’s none of my business, but it sounds like this friend broke your heart.”

It stops you in your tracks because it honestly hadn’t occurred to you.

You’ve never had a heart to break.

* * *

A man delivers papers to the shelter once a week. His name is Bill. You see him talking to Janice one day, see them looking over at you while they talk. You’re sweeping the hallway and you wonder if they can tell that you’re not human, that you had to ask for help with how not to sweep dirt onto your shoes.

Bill comes over to you before he leaves and tells you that he knows a woman who needs someone to work at her convenience store, that Janice put in a good word for you. That if you want it, the job is yours.

You nod quickly, tell him that you would like that very much, and promise to make your way over to the store for the interview with the woman. Nora, he calls her.

When he leaves you ask Janice what  _exactly_  a convenience store clerk does and she laughs, tells you you’re funny. You just smile, confused by how that was amusing, but don’t say anything else because she grabs your arm and tells you that she’s going to give you a haircut before your interview. Tells you that you have to clean up a little, maybe shave. Change your shirt, “Y’know,” she says offhandedly, “Job interview stuff.”

You pretend like you know and follow her to the kitchen, let her cut your hair, let her show you how to shave.

You miss your Grace most when she nicks your chin and blood gets on your t-shirt. 

* * *

Nora is kind. Even without your Grace, you can tell she has a good soul.

She gives you the job, allows you to forego the application when you explain your difficult circumstances, how a criminal had stolen your identity so all of your papers were invalid right now. It’s a weak lie but you remember Dean using it when he was 19 and in need of a job to feed Sam.

She gives you the blue vest on a Thursday and it has a name tag pinned to it. You smile, say thank you, and go back to stocking the shelves.

Angel of Thursdays, indeed. 

* * *

The first death reported in the newspaper takes you by surprise. You’d hoped that with some luck, you had found the one town in all of the country that wouldn’t be plagued by supernatural crimes. You’re not ready to see  _him_  yet. So you wait and you fill the slushie machine and you try not to spill it. 

The second and third deaths are more worrisome and you pick up the phone he gave you one night, debate whether you should call him or not. You decide it was a coincidence and walk yourself to the nearest bar with your first paycheck, try to numb whatever this new feeling is with a few beers. You meet a girl and she’s beautiful, her long dirty blonde hair falls in her face when she laughs sweetly at your jokes. She asks you to come home with her and you agree but when you stumble out onto the street, you see her green eyes and freckles and you tell her you have to be at work early tomorrow. You leave her standing out front of the bar wondering what she did wrong, your phone burning a hole in your pocket.

The fourth death is when you call him, tell him there’s a case.

His voice makes something in your chest ache and you hang up before he’s done talking and if anyone asks, the small, frustrated yell you let out is because of the sticky blue beverage on the floor and not the infuriating man who broke your heart.

* * *

When the woman steps out of the way and you see him standing there, you feel your heart leap up into your throat. 

“I’ll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.” He smiles at you and you feel your heart skip a beat, lodged somewhere between your mouth and your stomach, so you look down at the counter instead of at him, “What are you doing here?” 

“Gee, it’s nice to see you too, Cas.” 

You want to tell him that it’s nice to see him too. You want to tell him that you miss him, that you’ve been thinking about him, that you think you might be in love with him. You want to tell him to get the fuck out of the store and your life, to never call you again. You want to tell him every single thing that you’ve had to endure since he kicked you out and how many times you’ve gone hungry since you became human. You want to punch him in the face and kiss him and knock him out like you did in that alley all those years ago. You want him to disappear and you want him to never leave your side again.

Instead you point to your name tag, lower your voice and say, “It’s, uh, Steve now. And, um… you surprised me.” 

“Well, the feeling is mutual. I mean I knew you had to lay low from the angel threat but, uh, wow. This is - this is some cover…” He smiles at you again and it makes something inside you snap a little, your patience wearing thin. You pull him off to the side and you give him a piece of your mind, but it’s not even a fraction of what you want to tell him. You reign it in, remember that you want him gone ASAP, and tell him matter-of-factly, “I’m a Sales Associate.” 

“A sales associate?” He asks, his tone teasing. You tell him your responsibilities, the list of them that you repeat to yourself of at night when you can’t stop thinking about all the times you’ve fucked up, remind yourself that Nora trusts you with all these things. It’s not much, but it’s more than you’ve trusted yourself with in a long time.

“Wow,” he says, “So you went from fighting heavenly battles… to nuking taquitos?” 

“Nachos, too.” 

They sell more than the taquito’s anyway. 

* * *

You’re surprised when he says he doesn’t care that you don’t have powers anymore, that he’s never had them. You remind him that in his words you “sucked” as a hunter. You know what room for improvement means.

Nora tells you that the bathroom needs to be cleaned and you don’t have to look at his face to know that he thinks you’re above all of this - but he thinks you’re above everything, even still. He shouldn’t. You don’t know how to tell him that.

You feel an odd sort of smugness when Nora mentions your date tonight in front of him and his reaction, the one that reminds you of those bad comedies you watch in the back room of the store when you can’t sleep, makes you decide that you will accompany him to check out the newest crime scene. You tell yourself it’s out of curiosity, not because you want to spend more time with him. You’ll say it was because you need to see the scene to figure out what is doing this, not because you’ve only realized how much you miss his voice.

But you make him wait while you finish your shift and clean the bathroom. Ignore his questions about Nora and what you’ve been doing since you got here. He doesn’t deserve to know anymore.

* * *

At the crime scene, you see the pink covering everything, you hear the account from the victim’s friend, and suddenly you feel like the air has been stolen from the parking lot. Your heart is beating a million miles a minute and the space you’re in feels too small, it feels like it’s closing in on you so you stumble over to the Impala, brace yourself on the hood and try to convince yourself that you’re not having a heart attack. 

You feel his hand on your back and then your shoulder and instead of flinching away like you want to, like you meant to, you lean into the touch and you tell him everything.

You tell him that you don’t want a part in this. You have a date.

He asks you if you’re scared. You want to laugh because the angel scares you but it pales in comparison to sitting so close to him and having so many things left unsaid. He tells you that you don’t have to work the job with him, to be happy and to have a normal life, and you try not to look as hurt as you suddenly feel. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say.

You ask him for a ride, ignore the voice in the back of your head that says you have enough money to take the bus back to the store. He turns the radio up and if you close your eyes, you can almost pretend that you don’t want to scream.

* * *

“Cas, I can’t let you do this -”

Your heart leaps up into your throat and you wonder if it’s normal for your internal organs to move around so much around another person.

“- are you really going to wear  _that_?” 

You try not to let your face fall when it’s not the words you wanted to hear and it occurs to you that you’re not really sure what you wanted to hear, but you know it wasn’t that. But you listen and you let him take the vest from you, toss it in the back seat of the Impala. You go slower when you realize he’s watching you unbutton your shirt, try to make this last as long as you can.

He makes a reference you don’t understand and he tells you what you already know about dating - for certain things, television is incredibly educational, you want to tell him. 

You get out of the car after a moment and turn around when you get to the gate, returning his thumbs up with some hesitancy. It feels so out of place but you’re not sure why.

There’s a small rose bush on the front steps and one flower is just starting to bloom so you grab it, remembering the episode of that one show where the son brought his date roses. You realize the Impala is still rumbling in the background so you wave him away and try not to think about the smile on his face when you first turned around. 

* * *

She had a date. You are the babysitter. You think to yourself that you’ve seen this episode of the sitcom before, you should’ve known better. Because the only people who seem to want you are trouble (a demon, the Righteous man, a reaper) and a nice, single mother like Nora deserves better than you.

Her daughter cries and you ask her as gently as you can, “Please don’t.” 

You don’t want to cry too.

* * *

Your brother is standing at the front door and you have a baby who is sick and suffering in your arms. It doesn’t even occur to you that he had shown up for you until he has your arm twisted and you’re on your knees in pain, cursing Metatron for taking the only form of self-defense you had.

He keeps saying all these things but you’re not listening as much as you should be because he says he can hear your pain. You want to ask him what is causing you the pain, but you don’t think this is the right time.

You hear the crash through the front door before you see  _him_  storming across the room and you let out a small pained sound when he’s thrown against the wall. This is supposed to be your fight. You’ve hurt him enough for ten lifetimes, you wish you knew how to stop. You’re not listening to your brother anymore but you see the blade sliding towards you, grab it, and save yourself by hurting someone else, again. 

When the light dissipates you’re left staring at him, your eyes locked together, and with a baby crying in the background.

* * *

He gets up before you do and he feels her forehead, shushing her and going into the kitchen with her in his arms to get her medicine. You watch meekly from the middle of her nursery, holding your wrist with your other hand while you try to ignore the tight swelling in your chest at the sight of him with a baby. 

She stops crying after the medicine takes effect, and he takes to tending to you. He brings in a first aid kit from the Impala and you sit on the counter in the kitchen, avoid looking at him as he cradles your wrist in his hands.

Neither one of you says anything while he works; you’re too afraid to break the tenuous peace you seem to have cultivated. He looks up when he’s done and opens his mouth to say something but your phone rings and he shuts it again, immediately going to put his supplies back in the car while you talk to Nora, tell her that the fever is under control but it would probably be best for her to come home.

He waits with you in silence. It’s the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

* * *

When you’re back in the Impala again, he asks you to stay in his motel room for the night. You wonder if this is a proposition for sex, and you hope it is, if only so you can turn him down. To hurt him in some way, like he’s hurt you.

A song is playing on the radio about lovers who keep meeting at the wrong times, the wrong places, and his hands grip the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turn white before he changes the station. You wonder if he knows how you feel. You wonder if he knows how  _he_  feels.

* * *

You’ve forgotten how much you missed beds until you lay down on his and let out a satisfied groan. It’s much softer than the storage room floor at work, even with your sleeping bag. His smile, even you know, is fond as he watches you squish the pillows around until they’re comfortable.

There’s one bed but you’re too tired of everything to bother arguing with him about this. You open one eye and glare at him, “Are you going to lay down any time soon?”

It seems to startle him but he gets in bed eventually and you shift closer, resting a head on his shoulder. It reminds you of Purgatory and you try not to think about that when he tentatively wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer.

You let the TV lull you to sleep, pretend you don’t feel the kiss on your forehead or the hand running through your hair.

You can’t remember why you were mad at him.

* * *

In the morning he lets you shower first. He buttons up your shirt when you, in a half-asleep pre-coffee state, miss a button and it ends up all eschewed. His hand comes up and brushes your cheek once it’s fixed and you can only blink tiredly at him. Humanity is exhausting.

At the diner he lets you order whatever you want and you order $30 worth of food because it’s been a few weeks since you had something that wasn’t made at the store and everything smells  _good_. He just smiles and watches you eat, thanks the waitress without taking his eyes off of you and drinks his coffee. You’re reminded of a case you worked with him before and it makes your cheeks flush a little bit.

Conversation is minimal and you suspect it’s because you’re both too scared to say the wrong thing. Silence in place of conversation is quickly becoming your least favorite thing.

* * *

He tells you that this isn’t how he wanted things to go. He tells you,  “I’m proud of you.” 

It feels more satisfying than it should to hear that from him, of all people, but you’re still too new at this to know how to change that. So you smile, nod, and get out of the car. It feels like there’s something that you should say, that you both should say, but you don’t know what it is. You turn around and lean in the passenger window, hoping he knows what it is you’re supposed to say but he looks as lost as you do.

You step away after a moment and go to unlock the front door of the store. You can feel his eyes on you the whole time as you get the door open but you don’t relax until you hear the rumbling of his car driving away.

You go through the motions, the steps of how to open the store and after you turn on the TV, you finally look out the window again and see that he’s gone. You stare at the road, willing a black car to drive past.

You wonder if you need him too.

**Author's Note:**

> [read it on tumblr](http://deansgoodsoul.tumblr.com/post/67300739460/9-06-coda-3-8k-words-you-cant-stay-here-he)


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